


moonlight beloved

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (does that make him a nogitsune then?), Age Difference, Biting, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Human Prompto Argentum, Inspired by Fanart, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Kitsune, Kitsune Noctis Lucis Caelum, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompto Argentum Likes it Rough, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: The doors are closed, the windows are closed, the wind moans in the corners of the room, and Prompto wakes up to the presence of his supernatural lover.





	moonlight beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JunjouGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunjouGrey/gifts).



> The marvelous @junjougrey created something for my recent birthday [here](http://junjougrey.tumblr.com/post/178539529508/happy-birthday-to-ninemoons42-lestallumhaven) so I took a couple of ideas from the illustration and ran with 'em :D

Is it the cold that wakes him, the draft that creeps in through the threadbare seams of his worn sheets, the tiny holes in the edges of his quilts, that add up to the bite of a cramp in his left foot? Is it the footsteps on the far faint borders of the country of his dreams, soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath bare skin? Is it the lingering scent of charred woodsmoke and the sap dripping into river-run currents?

All Prompto knows before he opens his eyes is that -- he’s no longer alone in his room.

But what a welcome intrusion the shadow settling in at the foot of his bed is: long lean wiry muscle, corded with scars. A hand coiled into a loose fist, sunken knuckles and supple fingers, the wrist banded around with a wide meander of ink in neat right-angle turns. Tail, sleek fur, laid into a negligent curve that he almost wants to capture in a photograph, in a pencil-sketch, in a painting -- the black of it like a brush ready and waiting to be dipped into vivid ink.

And he sits up and smiles a little, though the effect is spoiled when he yawns and he has to cover his mouth and hide his face in a pillow afterward.

He gets a long low quiet laugh for that, and the sound tickles along his nerves, makes him catch his breath. “Go back to sleep.”

“That’s my line,” Prompto says, and he struggles out of his quilts and crawls across the bed.

Here is his visitor, who turns his head to regard him as he comes closer. Here are the points of his ears, rising silver-tipped from dark hair that flows in loose waves to shoulders swathed in fur and -- strangely -- a crisp button-down shirt. Here are the edges of his teeth, sharp canines standing out from his smile -- or is it a smirk, or is it something else entirely, that seems to both grow and become far more feral, the closer Prompto gets? Here is the shadow of the stubble that clings stubbornly to a stern curve of a jawline.

And by the time Prompto climbs into his visitor’s lap, the moon has finally cleared the unraveling hems of the streaming clouds and the fleeing stars, and that cold light catches in silver irises, in deep-blue pupils in the shapes of vertical slits.

He used to be afraid of that inhuman gaze.

Now he lifts his chin and leans in even closer, and attempts to smile. “I’ll sleep if you stay. Maybe.”

“Brat.”

He shivers when he feels one of his visitor’s hands catch him at the back of his neck: the points of sharp claws digging ever-so-gently into his skin, pressing in, pulling him inexorably closer.

“You’re not thinking of sleeping.”

“N-no, no I’m not. Noctis.”

A fox-spirit named _Night_ : whose actual scent of pine-musk and hot steel is thick enough to taste, to clog and cloy in Prompto’s throat, and yet he only sighs and turns up his face even further, mouth falling gently open in a silent request.

“It’s my job to tempt you,” Noctis is murmuring, and Prompto shakes at those words, the edges of them kissed into his skin, the growl and the brush of that cruel beautiful mouth against his own. “But I can’t resist you.”

“Please don’t,” and that’s as far as he can say, in terms of consenting, because then all the words are gone and all his thoughts are flashing away as Noctis kisses him.

Tongue, proprietary, sweeping into his mouth and tasting deeply of him. Teeth, nipping, playful surging, making him whine and press even closer -- arms braced around Noctis’ neck and hanging on for dear life. Is that a hand on his hip, pulling at him? If so, he lets himself be guided and is dimly, distantly grateful for the feeling of that strong whip-like frame against his. 

Noctis’s other hand is already slipping under his shirt-hem. Fingers splayed wide over his torso, his ribs, his stomach. He’s not even moving otherwise: it’s just the presence of him, immense and intoxicating, and Prompto would moan for him if his mouth weren’t already so delightfully occupied.

“Touch me,” Noctis huffs at him, when they part to gasp for much-needed air.

And for some reason Prompto always starts with -- his hair. The silky strands, the smell of leaves on the wind, the stray strands of deep red wound into the rich dark depths. Flow through his fingers, down to clutch briefly at plush fur, down so he can sweep his fingers over the muscles bunching in Noctis’s upper arm, so he can hang on and dig in, leave his own little marks on his beautiful companion.

“More.”

“Please?” he responds, incoherently, shimmying closer, struggling to fall even more into Noctis’s touch.

Which is why Noctis breaks the kiss and Prompto claps his hand over his mouth, the better to stop that shameful yearning sigh from breaking free -- but then he has to catch his breath again because Noctis is pulling off his shirt.

(The fur is not Noctis’s, as it turns out; it seems to be part of the shirt.)

Scars on Noctis’s chest, skating over the broad pectorals, cutting through the fine down of dark hair over the breast bone -- Prompto traces the dear familiar lines with still-reverent fingers, and gives in to the temptation to crowd in again, to breathe a kiss over the shadow in one collar-bone curve.

Which -- he can’t stop feeling out the contours of Noctis, the shape of him in this world -- the powerful frame of him, elegantly angled, and he can see how Noctis is trying to breathe in properly, the heave of that chest, the flutter in the skin stretched taut over his belly -- he looks up, bites his lip. “Too much?”

“No,” is the stern answer. “But I still don’t know why you’ve never run away from me.”

“Why should I start being afraid of you now,” Prompto says, and he looks away, and feels the flush of embarrassment heating on his cheeks. 

He makes it as far as getting out of Noctis’s lap -- but before he can look for the edge of a quilt so he can wrap himself in it, cold again in the night without the skin-contact, there’s warmth blooming in his shoulder, Noctis’s hand again and -- he doesn’t even know he’s falling back onto his bed until he’s stretched out, until he’s laid out, and Noctis’s keen eyes are all he can see, all he can focus on.

“Come here,” he whispers, when Noctis doesn’t seem to want to move.

And the kiss that falls upon him is -- only a little gentler than the ones they’d started with, on this night. Only a little kinder, because the rest of Noctis is -- wilder, is more demanding. Teeth meeting in Prompto’s skin, again and again: just enough force that he careens on the thought that Noctis will break through, this time; that Noctis will draw blood from him. Hands moving on him, urgently, knowingly: he can feel his own body twisting on the thin sheets, on the clumpy duvet, when Noctis touches his chest, his ribs, his hips. When that mouth latches on to his throat, to the skin over his heart, the softness of his stomach. 

He’s flying apart, he thinks, flying to pieces and he’s so grateful for it and all he can do is try and catch his breath, try to call Noctis’s name. 

“Yes,” comes the reply, low sweet growl and the throbbing sweet pain of a bite into the muscle of his thigh, nearly right at his groin and Prompto sucks in a desperate inadequate breath -- light-headed and dizzy into the bargain --

Somehow he catches hold of Noctis’s ear and -- he knows he doesn’t pull that hard, but it’s still a surprise when he opens his eyes and he’s looking straight into that dark need that shadows those eyes, those inhuman eyes, and -- he smiles. “What do you want?”

The response that he gets is another kiss, claiming him, pulling him further and further down into that obliterating need that’s flaring up into his nerves.

“Drawer,” he manages to pant, when Noctis growls against him and -- rolls his hips.

He doesn’t cry out, he thinks he doesn’t -- but he does nearly kick Noctis away in the frantic need that scratches down his needing nerves, and he skins out of his clothes as fast as he can -- reaches out to Noctis to help him with his and only actually succeeds in brushing fingertips against the waistband of the trousers, because Noctis is already maneuvering the whole thing off.

And Prompto still stares at him, still relishes the sight of him in nothing but his own skin and ears and tail -- the exact same way Noctis had been, the first time they’d met -- not too long ago, he’d think, if not for this long string of nights that they’ve spent pressed against the warmth of each other, the steadying presence and weight of each other.

He hadn’t quite lost his virginity to Noctis on that exact first night -- but it hadn’t taken them long to get to that point, and to all the other points between, which is why he has the idea of pushing gently at Noctis’s shoulder in the first place. “May I?”

Flash of teeth, entirely Noctis, and the constant twitch of those ears, listening for everything and -- Prompto knows this because Noctis has told him -- listening for him. Listening to him, even when he doesn’t complete the question, because Noctis is reluctantly lying back down on the bed, is folding his tail carefully to the side and Prompto is straddling him, leaning in to kiss him and also fumbling for the heavy little bottle that’s landed somewhere near his pounded-down pillows, and the synthetic-flat scent of the contents makes Noctis recoil, only a little.

“Prompto.”

“Yes?”

And that’s when he knows he’s got Noctis’s full attention because -- Prompto reaches behind himself and takes a deep breath, a calming breath -- not easy when he knows what he’s sitting on, when he can all but hear the anticipatory slow climb of Noctis’s pulse, loud and clear -- and he gives in to the temptation to tease, to draw it out -- narrowing of those predator’s eyes, honing in on him, driving his own need.

One finger. Two. Three. 

Noctis sits up, then, and slides his own little finger in along with all of Prompto’s -- who freezes when Noctis catches his prostate -- all the breath knocked out of him in an instant and he comes, shuddering in delight and the pure shock thrilling along every inch of his skin -- and he’s still shivering and skirting the edges of overload when Noctis grins, and -- 

“Yes, yes, do it, do it!” 

Prompto doesn’t quite shout -- but he does throw his head back and arch backward, completely silent, completely overwhelmed, when Noctis enters him in one long delicious thrust.

Clawed hand catching in Prompto’s hair, tugging hard and deliberate and the shock of almost-pain is sharp and sweet and Prompto can only laugh and -- it takes very little prodding before he’s taking over from Noctis. Before he braces himself on his knees on the bed, on his hands on Noctis’s shoulders, rising and falling on the full length of Noctis’s cock -- 

Growl, rising ringing notes of pleasure thrumming in Prompto’s every breath, the thundering of his heart -- and then Noctis’s other hand is catching him by his chin, is turning him to look into Noctis’s eyes and -- he can’t look away, he can’t stop moving -- Noctis is thrusting up into him again. Is crooning obscene encouragement:

“Make me come, beautiful, give it to me, give yourself to me.”

“Please!”

Again and again Prompto skids towards the edge of another climax -- again and again Noctis only has to growl at him and it’s enough, enough to claw back from that edge -- he’s weeping, openly, sweetly twisted and tormented, by the time Noctis rears up from the bed and pulls him into a rough kiss -- he moans dazed and longing and finally, finally, Noctis mutters:

“Now. With me.”

One more thrust, Noctis’s teeth crashing together in the meat of his shoulder, and Prompto _screams_ , high inarticulate triumphant --

Rumbling along his nerves that’s Noctis, shuddering as he empties himself into Prompto’s body, silent in the throes of his own ecstasy.

He thinks he slurs out Noctis’s name, before the world goes mercifully soft and dark for a moment.

Arms and a tail curled around him, when he comes back to himself, and he mutters into Noctis’s throat: “Stay.”

“Brat. Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
